Inspired By Song
by TheReturned
Summary: Collection of completely unrelated drabbles/one-shots inspired by various songs (lyrics not used). Mainly Johnlock (I would imagine). Various themes, genres, characters, pairings and stages of pairings. Please see A/N in Chapter One for a more concise description. Rating anywhere between K and M.
1. My Immortal

**New project from me, that will be added to sporadically. Basically a collection of completely unrelated, song-inspired drabbles, all one-shots (if I feel like doing a multi-chapter thing, I'll probably do it as a brand new fic). Lyrics won't be used, but the chapter names will be the song that has inspired each chapter, should you wish to check out the lyrics (or listen to the song while reading, if that works for you). I would imagine that the vast majority will be Johnlock, as that is _what I do, _but there might be others in here too. All sorts of genres - humour, drama, romance will obviously feature, and angst. Some will be pre-slash, some established relationships, some unrequited love. Some might not have any sort of romance about them at all. Some will be third person, some will be first. I might attempt a second person POV at some point. Absolutely willing to take prompts/song recommendations, please let me know in reviews or in private messages. I will always make clear what the main themes of each chapter are, in case you wish to avoid certain types/pairings etc. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

**My Immortal ~ Evanescence**

**Pairing: Unrequited Johnlock**

**Rating: T for very slight (and incorrect) reference to drug-taking**

**Genre: Angsty **

* * *

He closes his eyes tightly, shutting everything and everyone out, if only temporarily. With his eyes closed, he can focus on his thoughts, on _not allowing himself to react_. This is normally what happens, anyway. Normally he has enough control.

But not tonight. Tonight, the emotion of the evening has filled his insides to the point where he feels like he can hardly breathe. He doesn't know why he agreed to any of this – from just attending the wedding, as a guest, to being persuaded into having one of the most important parts of the whole ceremony. The Best Man. The Best Friend.

Friend.

The word hurts him more than it should. He should feel grateful, he knows this. He should be pleased to be allowed into his life, even in this small way. To be granted the right to be a part of him, if only platonic. But it is not enough.

In a way, he wishes it were all... or nothing.

The music is deafening, but still he can hear his heart breaking, as he pushes his way through the strength of the crowd, past the _happy couple. _Air. He needs air, so badly he feels his lungs might burst if he doesn't manage to break through this swarm of people and out into the night time lull within the next three seconds...

He makes it. He realises he has his coat. He has no intention of returning.

* * *

Her sympathy is not wanted. It makes him feel pathetic. Weak. Childish.

"Give it time," she says patronisingly. "You'll meet someone else."

For a woman who has supposedly _seen it all, _she does come out with some utter rubbish sometimes.

He lies on the sofa, the sense of abandonment consuming him like a savage beast, the feeling of loneliness sweeping through him like a chilling tempest. It's been weeks. Three to be exact. And he knows that he will see him again, sometime soon, most probably. And that's what hurts the most. That's when it'll become apparent, that he will no longer be able to hide from the fact that everything has changed.

He closes his eyes and _remembers._

* * *

_The screams echoed through the hallway. He grabbed his violin, the only source of comfort he could think of, and practically raced up the stairs, two at a time. He could no longer ignore it. He had to try something._

_He was lying in his bed, but he was sobbing. Tears streamed down his face from his closed lids, his face, illuminated in the moonlight streaming through his window, was streaked with pain and terror. Violin temporarily forgotten, he perched on the edge of the bed, softly wiping the tears away with his thumb. He moved into the touch, murmuring. He sounded so pained, so wretched. _

_He picked up the violin and, still perched precariously on the edge of his bed, not wanting to disturb him, he played. He couldn't remember what it was – a lullaby of some description – but the terror faded, the pain ebbed away, the breaths were calmer as he continued to stroke the bow across the tight strings, quietly playing the nightmares away._

_After half an hour of gentle music, he came to a natural finish, carefully removing the instrument from his shoulder. He allowed himself one small squeeze of the hand that lay, resting, on top of the covers, before silently leaving the room._

* * *

The kitchen is empty without his constant, calming presence, never too far from his beloved kettle. The living room, cold without his blogger, sat with his laptop, offering up the odd comment, sharing a joke or two. The house seems different without the light of his eyes shining in unabashed excitement at a new case, without his ridiculous jumpers, without his smile.

It is the same as when it was before he came into his life, he reminds himself. He lived this way for many years before the soldier limped into Flat 221B and turned his world on its head.

But he was blind before, blind to the possibility of what could be. Blind to emotion, to feelings, to love.

Now he knows what he's missing, what he needs so badly in his life to make him whole, to make him happy. And it kills him that he knows he can never have it.

You did this to yourself, he tells himself. If you hadn't left him, he wouldn't have found her.

Berating himself, unsurprisingly, does not work. It only exacerbates the pain, makes it eat away at his very soul.

He sleeps even less, and when he does manage to fall into a semblance of sleep, all he sees is him. He haunts his dreams, he invades his mind palace. He walks the halls of the imagined building, silently. He's seeped into every nugget of his existence. He can't escape him.

When they eventually meet, he can't bear it. His throat dries up, and no words are forthcoming. He is met with a bemused look, a question – "are you ill? Let me check you over, I am a doctor" – that he does not have the wherewithal to dodge. He is led blindly to his own sofa. His hand touches his forehead, gently, a concerned look on his face. He feels how flushed, how clammy he is. He knows it is an unusual state for him to be in. Unless –

"You're not using again, are you? Sherlock!"

He denies it immediately, and can tell he's believed. The inspection continues, he's prescribed bed rest. He doesn't bother to tell him that that won't help, that sleep only serves to make him suffer more. He weakly agrees, nodding along, noting the worry in his face and feeling briefly touched that he cares. Then, once again, he wishes he were alone. All alone, as he was before. He wishes he'd never known this feeling.

_You'll meet someone else, _she had said.

No. No one will ever compare. No one will ever do.

John Watson has all of him. Heart, feeble that it is, and soul, as broken as it could be. He just doesn't know it. And never will.


	2. The Reason

**Chapter Two is finally here. Chapter Three will be TheVenturer's prompt (incidentally, go and read her fics because they are amazing and deserve far more credit). If anyone else would like to offer any suggestions, feel free, and remember, please review if you feel so inclined. Reviews keep me happy :)**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

**The Reason ~ Hoobastank**

**Pairing: Johnlock**

**Rating: K+**

**Genre: Angst/Romance**

* * *

_John,_

_I am aware that I have already asked your forgiveness in regards to this matter and that it was given. Nevertheless, I fear that I placed you under an unfair amount of duress to garner the forgiveness from yourself - ironic really, considering that I was attempting to convey my apologies for the way I had treated you by, once again, treating you in an unforgiveable manner. What sort of person allows their friend to believe that they are in mortal peril in order to hear them say "I forgive you" anyway?_

_Anyway, my point is that I once again ask your forgiveness, but do not expect you to give it, and this time I do not intend to conjure up any scenario that would force an acceptance from you. I know how much I hurt you by leaving, without informing you that I was, in fact, not dead. I am not entirely sure why I thought that it was an acceptable thing to do. Maybe I knew, deep down, that it wasn't, but such was my fear for your safety that I ignored the part of my brain that was screaming (quietly) at me that this was wrong, this was unfair, and that you would end up hurt no matter what. I should have trusted your integrity, I should have known that you would have been able to put on an acceptable act to fool even the cleverest terrorist into thinking that you were genuinely grieving._

_I can still see it etched on your face, John, and I do not believe that I am suffering from delusions of grandeur when I say that my 'death' destroyed you. Thank goodness you found Mary; she is a good woman for you, John. She is in love with you, and I can tell that you love her. She saved you from...well, goodness knows what. I cannot bear to imagine what my death might have done to you, if you had been allowed to wallow for much longer than you did. And that summons up feelings within me, John. Feelings, and emotions, that I did not know existed. It hurts me that I hurt you. I can barely bear to be inside my own head - and you know how often I find myself, quite literally, stuck in there. To know that I caused you pain, made you suffer, made you grieve as long as you did... I cannot bear it. And, once again, I am making this all about myself John, and I hate myself for how I am coming across. My only defence is that I am not used to having to deal with emotions, I do not know how to handle them. I have to live with the knowledge that I caused all this pain, and that you suffered unnecessarily. I wish I could take it back, I really do. Or, I wish I had told you sooner, or I wish I could have comforted you when you were sad. Something. I know not what._

_This is the thing, John. This is the inexplicable, incomprehensible thing. You make me feel guilty. You make me feel wretched. But most of all, you make me __feel__. Something that no one has ever really managed before. You, a mere man, an ex-soldier, my friend (even that is something that shocked so many people - Sherlock Holmes has a friend?!) have caused me to 'discover myself' as people so often nauseatingly put it. You have made me reconsider everything I am, everything I do, the way I put myself across. Of course, I do not intend to change the way I am with cretins such as Anderson, or Donovan, or even Graham to be perfectly honest. Those people deserve my apathy - even if Anderson has suddenly discovered an almost sickening fanaticism for me. But the few people I care about in my life... you have made me change my views on how I should be with them. Whether this will ultimately change my overall character, I cannot say. But with you..._

_This deserves a new paragraph. I am about to be revoltingly open and honest and if you ever mention this to anyone (if you even get to read it - goodness knows I may well screw this piece of paper up and throw it into a fire) I might have to take back everything I say here..._

_You are my reason for starting over again. Part of this starting over is to be totally honest and John, I think I can be honest with you. I never thought I could feel much for any other human being, but you have changed that. You were my reason for surviving those two years, hunting down Moriarty's network and destroying every branch I could find. You were my reason for coming back to London - yes, the case helped, but I needed you there with me, every step of the way. You always were my reason for doing so many things. Things like ruining your dates. Nodding off on the sofa while you watched some awful programme instead of retiring to my bedroom. Buying milk, even when I would never normally bother. These might sound like little, insignificant things (or downright rude, in regards to your dates) but they were not. I feel bad, in a way, for mentioning this, as you are with Mary and you seem happy. But... you are my ultimate reason, John. And I am truly sorry that I risked our friendship two years ago. Because, even if that is all I can have from you, it is more than enough, and far more than I deserve._

_Sherlock._

* * *

"What would you think," John asked Greg, over a pint one night, "if someone said to you 'You are my ultimate reason. I'm sorry I risked our friendship, because even if that is all I can have from you, it is more than enough and it is far more than I deserve'?"

"This, of course, being a completely hypothetical question, I take it?" the Detective Inspector asked, wearing a look of pure innocence on his face.

"Of course," John replied quickly. "But... would you take that to mean..."

"Oh, absolutely," Greg said. "Someone's in deep."

John nodded. "That's what I thought," he said quietly, ignoring the quizzical look on his friend's face.

* * *

The letter had been read. He knew it had, because it was no longer on the kitchen worktop where he had left it, and Mrs Hudson had sworn blind that she hadn't tidied it away. The only person he knew of that had been in the flat was John, and why would he pick up an envelope with his name on and not read the contents?

The letter had been removed a few days before, and he had heard nothing from John since. This in itself wasn't that unusual, as John and Mary were both busy at work and enjoyed spending their free time together - something that Sherlock had begrudgingly accepted. But he thought that the outpouring of emotion from him would have stirred _something _in John, considering that he had effectively declared his love for the man. Hadn't he? Maybe the letter had been misinterpreted. Or maybe John wasn't interested. That was okay though, he'd allowed for that. Maybe John just felt awkward about everything, but surely he'd get over that soon enough.

Sherlock worried at his lip, pacing a little, glancing every now and then at his phone that hadn't rung for several days. He sighed and collapsed into his chair, staring at the empty one opposite, willing something, anything to happen.

The phone buzzed.

He leapt for it, his heart sinking a tiny bit when he saw it was a message from Greg. Then leapt again.

_Case for you. John on his way too. Meet at the Yard in 30 mins? GL_

Sherlock grinned and strode towards the door, grabbing his coat and sending a quick text in return.

_Will be there in ten. SH._

* * *

"John's not here yet," Greg said as Sherlock entered his office. "I'm surprised he agreed to come at all really, although I thought I'd better ask. Didn't want him to feel left out. Just hope he doesn't feel obliged now that I did ask."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Why are you surprised? John loves a case," he said, then felt panic rising in his chest. Had John told Greg about the letter? Had he expressed a desire to stay away from Sherlock? God, he knew he shouldn't have succumbed to his feelings, sentiment always was in the -

"Well, what with him calling off his engagement, I didn't think he'd be in the right frame of mind." Greg interrupted Sherlock's thoughts so remarkably, he might as well have dropped a ten- tonne weight on them. "But who knows? Maybe he just needs to take his mind off of things."

Sherlock was aware of his mouth dropping open, aware of the blood draining from his face, of his eyes boring deep holes into the detective inspector. "He... he called off the engagement?"

"He sure did."

Sherlock whipped round to see John standing in the doorway, a look somewhere between amused and nervous crossing his features.

"Ah, John, there you are," Greg said, turning away briefly, his confusion at Sherlock's obvious surprise at his news about John immediately forgotten. "Let me just..."

The taller man looked down at his shorter friend, who had appeared beside him, giving him a timid smile. John hesitantly took Sherlock's hand, giving it a very gentle squeeze, before whispering "We'll talk later, okay?"

He could read that smile. Could decipher the hand squeeze. And, as he became aware of John standing closer to him, arms just about touching, hands brushing hands, he allowed himself to relax as Greg hunted out the necessary paperwork for the case. Maybe, just maybe, a bit of sentiment and honesty was going to be the best thing that ever happened to him.

* * *

**I was going to end it after the letter but, as the first chapter was so angsty, I thought this one needed a bit of relief at the end. Anyway, hope you liked it! They won't all be fluffy/tame either, it's just the way they've gone so far :) E x**


	3. Stubborn Love

**This one is dedicated to the lovely TheVenturer. I struggled with this one a little, as I am not familiar with the song, but I gave it my best shot and I hope it's at least slightly in line with how you were thinking about it :) if anyone would like to suggest any other ideas, please message me or leave a review. I am willing to take on any suggestions, maybe something a little racier for the next one :) and less angst! I keep writing angsty fics, I can't seem to stop.**

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**

**Stubborn Love ~ Lumineers**

**Pairing: Established Johnlock**

**Rating: T for brief reference to drugs**

**Genre: Angst/Romance**

"I am not leaving until you come out and talk to me, Sherlock!"

No answer. Unsurprising, really. That infuriating bastard would probably hole himself up in his room for eternity if it meant not having this confrontation, right here, right now.

He leant his forehead against the door. "How could you do this to me, again, Sherlock?" he exclaimed. "I thought you knew how much this would break me. And, if you really couldn't see any other option... why wouldn't you tell me, so we could face it together?"

Silence.

"I will actually break this door down if you don't come out of there," John yelled. "You and I are going to discuss this, properly, like grown-ups. Why can't you understand that someone cares about you?"

"How can you possibly?" was the sudden, muffled response. "I push you away, constantly. Everything I do winds you up, makes you angry. I don't deserve your worry, your care, your compassion. I am unworthy of you."

Furious, John punched the door, not caring that it might frighten him. He was beyond exasperated now. How could he not see it? How could he not read it in his face, in his mannerisms, in his actions? That bloody man was so good at deducing everything else, yet this one thing that eluded him so...

"Sherlock fucking Holmes, get out here right now so we can bloody well talk about this!" he shouted. "You've got five seconds. Four. Three. Two-"

The door unlocked, but did not open. John scowled then, accepting the compromise, pushed down on the handle and opened the door, stepping inside. Sherlock was already back on the bed, lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

"It was always my comfort," he whispered, not looking at John. "When things got too difficult. When I was bullied at school. When my parents weren't around, which was often. When Mycroft was... himself. It became my release from the horror and emotional barrenness of my childhood."

"I get it," John said softly, and risked moving towards the bed. When Sherlock didn't react, he sat down gently on the edge of the mattress, and tentatively placed his warm, tanned hand on top of the pale cool one beside him. Again, no reaction, which he accepted as a good thing. "I can't say I wouldn't have done the same, Sherlock, but you're 39 now. I've been here for... goodness knows how long. _I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. _And the sooner you get that into your thick head, and stow it away in that sodding Palace of yours, the better."

Sherlock blinked. "But why would you stay? I'm so horrific to you. I treat you so abysmally. You're just too stubborn to admit that this is all wrong, and you should leave."

"You're not horrific," John replied gently. "I told you before, Sherlock. I love you for who you are. And yes, you can be an absolute pain in the arse sometimes..." he raised his eyebrow at that, and Sherlock huffed out a small chuckle - the double meaning not lost on him. "... but I wouldn't be without you. I couldn't be without you."

Sherlock lifted his head slightly to look at him.

"Maybe I am stubborn," John said, smiling slightly. "I'm stubbornly in love with you. It doesn't matter how much you wind me up, or how many drugs you take - though _please _stop doing that, because I'm concerned about your health more than angry about it - and it doesn't matter if you fake your own death and bugger off for two years. I will still love you." He paused, then added, "Although, again, please don't ever do that again. I will still love you, but I might get ever closer to murdering you."

Sherlock shifted himself into a seated position on the bed, drawing his knees up to his chest, and John was suddenly struck by how vulnerable he appeared. He nudged closer to him, stroking the dark curls away from his forehead, as Sherlock continued to stare at him.

"You really mean it, don't you?" he asked in wonderment.

A grin broke out over John's face. "Of course I do, you idiot. We've been through enough adventure, craziness and excitement to last us several lifetimes, but I still want to keep on doing it, and more, with you. Please."

Sherlock quirked a smile back at him. "I'll do my best with the drugs," he said, sounding almost childlike. "I... it's just such a hard habit to break."

John clambered onto the bed, sitting up against the headboard next to him, and Sherlock, quickly checking it was okay with a dart of his eyes, curled up into him, resting his head on his chest. John let his hand drift slowly down Sherlock's arm, his other hand gently stroking his head, soothingly. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, knowing that, whilst Sherlock meant what he said, this wouldn't be the last time. Sherlock was an addict by nature, and when he had his 'danger nights' there was no reasoning with him. But, hopefully, these nights would get fewer and fewer and eventually, maybe, there would come a time when Sherlock did not need them, ever.

He was suddenly aware of Sherlock snuffling, and he pulled back slightly, allowing Sherlock to look up at him, his eyes reddened and his face even whiter than usual.

"I don't know if I can get through this," Sherlock admitted, "but I'm scared I'll lose you if I don't, despite what you say and how you think now."

John shushed him, kissing him quickly but gently on the lips. Then, foreheads touching each other, noses softly rubbing together, he whispered so that his words gently caressed Sherlock's mouth. "You can get through this. Keep your head up. You won't lose me, love. I'm not going anywhere."


	4. I Won't Let You Go

**For merlynnllwyd. Hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**I Won't Let You Go ~ Snow Patrol**

**Pairing: Johnlock**

**Rating: T **

**Genre: Romance, with a tiny bit of angst I suppose. But mainly romance.**

* * *

"Here."

John was shocked out of his reverie by a mug of tea making a sudden appearance in front of his face. Glancing up, he muttered a "thanks" at his flatmate, taking the steaming hot drink from his hands and into his own.

Sherlock settled in the armchair opposite, watching him carefully. John had barely reacted vocally to the encounters of that evening, but his body language was guarded, even from the deducing eyes of Sherlock Holmes. The silence that drowned them was uncomfortable, unusual in its intensity, and it was annoying the consulting detective.

John took a sip from the mug, then stared at it, confused. He cast his eyes across the room to the dark-haired, brooding man, and frowned slightly. "You made me tea," he stated, pursing his lips.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "My my, you're on the ball this evening, Doctor. "

"Ha bloody ha. You never make me tea. Ever."

"Well, I think you'll find you are completely incorrect in that assertion, John, since you hold in your hand a hot drink of the tea variety brewed exclusively by me," was the drawled, pointed response. John huffed, but said no more at that point, and they lapsed into silence again.

The constant ticking of the clock served only to annoy Sherlock further, meticulously counting the seconds that neither of them exchanged any form of communication. This was unheard of for them. Sherlock had become used, over the past couple of months, to the inane ramblings of John as he pottered about, or commented on something he was reading in the paper, or watching on the TV. Sherlock often didn't listen to the exact words, but had grown accustomed to the company of John's voice. And even when he wasn't talking, the silence wasn't like this. Not so ominous.

A fear suddenly engulfed him. Was John... planning on leaving? Was this last case proof of how dangerous life was with him? Would he lose his only friend?

He scoffed internally at the thought. John didn't even think of him as a friend, did he? He'd corrected that irksome Sebastian before, when Sherlock had introduced him as such. It had... it had hurt, Sherlock was surprised to admit to himself. He hadn't really considered it at the time, more interested in the case that had presented itself at the bank. John only thought of him as a colleague, and nothing more.

John shifted in his chair, his face looking troubled, and possibly a little nervous. Not surprising, considering what he and Sarah had been through - even Sherlock could see how being tied up and threatened in the way that they had been would be mildly disconcerting. But the danger had passed now, and they were safe - Sarah was back home, and John was here, drinking tea, the case solved. There was no need to be nervous now.

He could tell that John was about to say something, and sat back in his chair, trying to plaster an inviting expression on his face. John's annoying inability to be read had perplexed him, and he wanted to know what was going through his mind. He didn't allow his brain any time to question that - when had he ever cared what anyone was thinking before?

John carefully put his mug on the floor, and then locked eyes with Sherlock. His gaze was sharp, honest and open, but Sherlock did not allow himself the opportunity to try and deduce John.

"I'm sorry," John said. "For what I said to Sebastian. I don't know why I said it. I think I panicked."

Mildly surprised, knowing exactly what John meant, Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

"I do think of myself as your colleague," John said carefully. "But you are, also, my friend." He laughed hoarsely. "Possibly my closest friend, really. I've never felt so... alive, since living here, working with you. Even more than when I was in the army. And I've never, ever felt compelled to save someone's life - illegally - within 48 hours of meeting them."

There was a pause. Sherlock didn't try to interject this time, sensing there was more to be said.

"And you... you cured me," he said, the wonderment evident in his voice. "Something no doctor or therapist was able to do. Being with you, chasing around London... it cured me."

Sherlock hummed. "Well, I can see why you have such an upset, pained expression on your face then," he said sarcastically. "That all sounds just... dreadful."

John looked suddenly frantic, ignoring Sherlock's comments. He leaned forwards in his seat, hands gripping the arms of his chair. For a moment, Sherlock was suddenly struck by the set of his jaw, the edge to his whole demeanour. The way his eyes glinted with... fear? Possibly, but he sensed something else there. Something that made him feel quite... intrigued.

"You've never had this sort of... relationship... with anyone else, have you?" John said softly. "I'm the first person you've ever allowed in to your strange, exciting world."

His eyes narrowed. "John, I think this evening's happenings have made you somewhat delirious. Would you like me to find you some sort of painkiller? Maybe it'll help..." He rose to his feet and skipped past John's chair, into the kitchen, raking through his mind, trying desperately to think where the medicines were kept, genuinely concerned - another new one for him - about his _friend's _state of mind.

He felt, more than heard, John stand behind him. "It didn't scare me," he whispered. "Not really. The thrill of it all overrode any panic within me. Even when Sarah's life was in danger. I'm still on a high from being... there."

Thoughts of medication flew from Sherlock's mind as he turned to face John, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "A kindred spirit," he murmured, looking him up and down appraisingly. "You know, John, I always knew you needed a bit of danger in your life... but I think you crave it almost as much as I do."

John said nothing, clenching and unclenching his fists, as if unsure what to do with his hands.

Sherlock took a step towards him. "It's fine, John," he said slowly, almost coldly. "Just admit it. This is fun for you. I said it before, John... I say danger, and you come running."

He saw John gulp. He was mere inches from him now, assessing him carefully, noticing with some surprise as the pupils dilated. He knew, if he felt John's pulse, that it would be elevated. Maybe he got off on the thrill of danger _just as much _as he did. He could feel his own breath quicken slightly, the absolute joy of discovering there was someone who was even a little like him. Someone who didn't call him a freak, but who admired him for his quick deductions and impressive intellect - oh, now wasn't the time to be modest. Someone who tolerated him when he was at his worst. Someone who had lived with him for several weeks now without trying to murder him.

He stopped, probably a little too close for comfort, too close to be acceptable with most people, but John didn't seem to care. He blinked, suddenly struck by how delighted he was that John was so keen to stay right by his side. People annoyed him before. People still did annoy him. But not John. John was... different.

"You're right," he breathed, never looking away. "You're the first."

* * *

The date had been a disaster, obviously. No date that began with your flatmate showing up to join you, and ended with a near-death situation, could ever be classed as successful, but John had found that he simply didn't care. He'd made sure that Sarah was as settled as she possibly could be at her house, and had been glad when she hadn't asked him to stay with her, knowing full well that he would have felt obliged to after everything that had happened, had she asked. He had wanted to be with Sherlock and no one else. The date had made him realise that.

He hadn't allowed his mind to travel any further than that. The facts were solid - he _had _got a thrill from the whole case, essentially. The climax was breath-taking, extraordinary, and somehow he had always known that Sherlock would turn up and save the day. Of course he would. And he did, leaving it til the very last minute. So dramatic. So Sherlock. And John had loved it.

No one else could give him that thrill. That was the second fact. He knew deep down that he was happiest when he was at Baker Street, or on a case, but either way, Sherlock was always there. He had to be. It wasn't the same without him.

The third fact was that dating was out of the question. It had to be. Why on earth would he date when he could be at home, or out solving mysteries. Yes, his date that evening had been part of the thrill, but only because Sherlock had been there. So what on earth did it all mean?

What indeed.

* * *

"I finally feel at home," John said simply, too aware of the close proximity between himself and Sherlock, feeling suddenly breathless. "I've bounced from place to place over the years, but here I feel... right, I guess. And I know you don't go in for all that sentimental bollocks," he continued, chancing a grin but receiving none in return. "But... that's it, Sherlock, really."

Once again, Sherlock said nothing. His eyes flickered from John's eyes, to his mouth, to his shoulders, back up to his face, calculating, taking everything in. Despite how close they were standing, John didn't look nervous. Everything about him screamed "determined". His stance, the set of his mouth, the steely look in his eyes that somehow still conveyed a warmth that Sherlock had never experienced. He felt totally lost, in an entirely alien (to him) situation.

Before he could say anything, John grabbed suddenly at his wrist, feeling his pulse. Sherlock, a little startled, could only stare down at his fingers pressing onto his skin, and he could feel, he knew, that it was far higher than normal.

"Hmm. So maybe not just me, then," John murmured, releasing Sherlock's arm and moving his hands back to his sides. Sherlock lifted his head slowly back to John, and inhaled deeply, forgetting where they were, what time it was, even what day it was. All he could see, all he could concentrate on, was John.

"What's happening?" he whispered. John smiled suddenly, and Sherlock felt him lace his fingers into his own, clutching gently but reassuringly. He didn't pull away. Despite not liking any sort of physical contact from anyone... this felt right. When it was John, everything felt right, he realised with a jolt.

"I've never seen you look so terrified in your life," John said, still smiling gently. "When you said I was the first..."

"You're the first person I've ever let into my life," Sherlock clarified, still focussed on the warm touch of John's hand against his cool palm. When was the last time anyone had touched him with such tenderness? He sighed as he realised he couldn't remember, aside from his mother, anyone ever showing him any affection at all. This wasn't something that had ever previously bothered him, as far as he could remember. Physical attraction was something that he had never had to deal with, and he had never felt the need to pursue any sort of relationship, for he had never felt the need to _have _someone in any way. Yet now, he could feel his entire being yearning for something, anything, from John. The thought made him feel slightly...completely... terrified.

John quirked an eyebrow. "In what way?"

Sherlock swallowed. "In any way," he whispered. "If you let people in, eventually they'll let you down."

The look that passed over John's face was one of such sorrow that Sherlock immediately felt guilty, though he wasn't entirely sure why. He had said nothing to offend John, nothing that he could think of anyway. He _had _let John in, that was the point. He was as sure as he could be that John would _not _let him down. In a friendship capacity, anyway.

He withdrew his hand from John's clasp and took a step back, turning and moving to the sink. He needed time to think, he needed to get all these new thoughts that were swimming through his mind in some sort of order. John was such a anomaly, he didn't fit in with all his previous careful categories. He leant forwards onto the worktop... and suddenly felt John stood behind him, hands either side of his, blocking him in. His chest pressed against his back, his mouth breathing against his neck. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried hard not to panic and break away.

"I can't explain this," John said quietly, softly, and Sherlock opened his eyes again. Hearing John's calm voice suddenly soothed him. "I have no idea what's going on either, Sherlock. All I know is that I suddenly find myself attracted to you... in so many ways. Maybe it wasn't even that sudden a realisation. I think I may have suppressed... some feelings."

The detective exhaled.

"But I will never, willingly, leave you," John promised, and Sherlock knew, immediately, that he meant it. "I really have no intention of ever leaving you, Sherlock. I have no idea how I can know that within a few weeks, but somehow, I do. And that is why I felt so scared, earlier." Sherlock, sensing John backing away, turned to face him again, and could immediately read the honesty in his eyes, the truth in his voice. "I was scared because I had to admit to myself that this life, with you... that's what I want. Not women, or dates, or even kids." He narrowed his eyes. "Just you. And whatever you're willing to give me."

Sherlock licked his lips. John's cards had been shown. He had been the brave one, he had vocalised his innermost thoughts and hopes. Sherlock knew he had to do the same, it was only fair. He allowed himself to examine how he felt about John - yes, attraction was definitely there, an emotional bond that he had had with no one else, ever. John was his only friend, the only person who had ever even begun to understand him. He didn't like it when John met Sarah, he had been terrified that she would drag him away. And now, he knew, that the opposite had happened, that Sarah had made John realise what it was he would be giving up.

Thank goodness for Sarah.

"I am possessive," Sherlock stated. "I don't like to share. If... if we tried this, if we... you know." He was stumbling over his words and he felt incredibly awkward, but he knew he had to push on. "I would try to consume you. We would fight, we would storm off, you'd probably get really mad at me..."

"But think of the make-up sex," John joked. Sherlock looked suddenly startled, he knew he did, but tried to cover it up. Unsuccessfully.

"Sorry," John said, but he couldn't stop the grin forming on his face.

"Does that not concern you?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

John took a step to Sherlock now, pressing him up against the worktop, and Sherlock hissed at the sudden closeness between them - legs against legs, John's hips sitting just below Sherlock's, and John's hands resting on top of his, the thumb of his right hand slowly stroking one of his fingers.

"No, not really," John said, his eyes burning with... desire. That was it. That's what it had been all along, Sherlock realised, but his thoughts were shot down as John continued: "I can be quite possessive, too."

He wasn't really aware how it happened. He was pretty sure that John's hand had cupped his face, pretty sure that happened before his lips descended onto John's, instinctively pressed against each other, fighting for dominance in this rather nervous game they appeared to be playing. If John had been listening, Sherlock thought, he would have figured out that this was his first kiss. Ever. Not just with a man - Sherlock had had many propositions over the years, but had never found any of them, from either gender, even remotely appealing. So why, he thought, as John's hands found their way to his hips, as he felt his friend pressing against him, clamouring for a closeness that Sherlock was desperately trying to give him, was John any different? Was it just because he had found someone who got him as magnificently as John did? Was he mistaking friendship for attraction?

He didn't think so, as he felt the pressing of John's erection against his own, even that being something he was not all too used to experiencing, having successfully managed to suppress most unwanted thoughts in that department to concentrate more fully on The Work. But with John, it seemed nothing could be suppressed. Everything was fair game, and he set about attempting valiantly to return the kisses being rained upon him, feeling very much like an amateur.

Not that John seemed to mind. Sherlock picked things up pretty quickly in general, and, gently turning so that it was now John pressed against the counter, he lowered his hands down to John's thighs and, in one swift movement, still kissing him hard, he lifted John so he was sat, Sherlock stook in between his legs. John groaned at the seemingly closer contact between them, their groins far more easily pressed together, and ran his tongue across Sherlock's bottom lip before biting down, causing Sherlock to return the moan and open his mouth, allowing John's tongue to start an extensive exploration. Sherlock pulled John closer to him without making him fall from the worktop, and he felt John move his hands into his hair, tugging gently at the locks, trailing his fingers along his scalp.

They pulled away, breathless and shaking slightly, and John started giggling. Sherlock was rather surprised at first, but, after a few seconds, found the laughter somewhat contagious, and soon he was joining in, arms still loosely wrapped around his friend. After a few minutes, their breathing slowed, and Sherlock bent his neck slightly, resting his forehead against John's and staring at him.

"Bedroom?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Bedroom," he agreed. It was okay. It was better than okay, really. It was John.

* * *

**Thank you to TheVenturer and merlynnllwyd for the reviews so far. Please review, and leave requests if you'd like - I'll attempt anything (So long as it's not completely irrelevant to the pairing!). Hope you've enjoyed them so far :) x**


	5. In These Arms

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**In These Arms ~ Bon Jovi**

**Pairing: Johnlock**

**Rating: T**

**Genre: Romance, angst, fluff. **

* * *

_**2010**_

He grasps his lover's hand; it is cool to the touch, his long fingers gracefully wrapping around his own tanned ones. They are lying flat on the ground, staring at the sun above them, just _being _for once in their chaotic lives. Enjoying the feel of the soft grass beneath them, sharing body heat, quietly holding tightly to each other.

"It really is just us, against the world, isn't it?" he breathes. His companion chuckles lightly.

"So full of romantic clichés, John," he retorts, rolling his head to meet his gaze. The icy-grey stare meets deep blue, both full of an emotion that the doctor had never thought he would see in this great man's eyes. "But yes. I doubt anyone else would have me, do you?"

"More fool them," he snorts.

* * *

_**2011**_

That feeling, in the pit of his stomach. In his heart. In his throat. A constant, aching nausea, a crippling grief, a refusal to accept that, once again, he is alone. Sherlock has left him broken and shattered, a wreck, worse than he ever was before he met him.

"But he was worth it, John," Mrs Hudson soothes him, perched beside him on their sofa. _Their sofa. _Only he is not here to sit with him anymore, to sprawl across his lap, to rest his feet on him, to wrestle him for the TV remote. Now it is just John's sofa. A place for grief and despair.

"How could he leave me?" John mumbles, his head in his hands, vaguely aware of his landlady's comforting words. "How could he do this to me? I never thought he was a fraud. Surely he knew that."

She has no words, for she too cannot understand how that ridiculous man could leave John, force him to carry on without him. She can only offer him tea, biscuits, a friendly ear, the odd hug. She cannot give him the answers he so desperately needs.

* * *

_**2013**_

He rises up from the armchair, and it's as if nothing has changed.

Except everything, _everything, _has changed.

"You."

"Hi."

"What the-"

"John, please..."

"Get out. Get out now."

"John, let me explain-"

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FLAT."

"This is my flat John, be reasonable!"

"Be reasonable?! You've turned up after two years of being DEAD, and you want ME to be reasonable? Get out, now."

"John, where will I go?"

"You didn't allow me to worry about that for the past two years, so why the hell should I start now?"

* * *

"He'll come round," Molly assures him, curled up in her ridiculously pink armchair with a ridiculously fat cat on her lap. "It'll be the shock."

Sherlock bites his lip, running back over the brief but volatile exchange. "He hates me."

"He could never understand how you left him, Sherlock. It killed me not to be able to tell him. You need to explain why."

"He won't listen to me."

Molly smiles sadly. "He'll struggle to avoid a text."

* * *

_Snipers trained on you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Moriarty was going to have you killed unless I jumped. SH._

_Spent the last two years breaking down his criminal network and getting rid of anyone who irked me. Started with the idiots that were ready to blow your head off. SH._

_I saved your life, John, you could at least say thank you. SH._

_I know you've read these texts. Mycroft showed me how Read Reports work. SH._

_Molly's flat smells weird. I think it's all the cats. SH._

_Oh come on John, it's been two days, surely you're not still mad at me? SH._

_Apparently that was a stupid thing to say. Evidently it takes longer than a few days to get over the shock of finding out that you're no longer a widower. SH._

_Well, obviously we weren't married, but you know what I mean. SH._

* * *

Lestrade turns up at Molly's flat, looking an odd mixture of stern but delighted to see Sherlock.

"I know about the snipers," he begins, before Sherlock can say anything. "John told me. Thank you."

Sherlock shrugs, draped despondently over a chair. His hair hasn't been tamed since his return from lands unknown, and it gives him a nomadic look. Greg notes the dull sadness in his eyes, and feels a momentary jolt of pity for his friend.

"He'll come round, you know."

"Why does everyone say that?" Sherlock glances up at him. "What can I do, Graham? You know how emotionally backwards I can be. I just want things back the way they were with John. I thought he'd be delighted to see me, but he still hasn't contacted me and it's been two weeks," he complains.

Greg sighs, ignoring Sherlock's error, and seats himself on the rather comfortable couch. "He feels let down, Sherlock," he says, watching the consulting detective for any sign to stop talking, but none is forthcoming. "You should have got word to him much sooner than you were okay. He thinks the fact that you didn't means you don't care for him as much as he thought you did."

Sherlock leaps from his chair, suddenly agitated. "That is preposterous!" he exclaims. "I purposely avoided contacting him, knowing it would place him in greater danger. I knew he was being watched, any sign that John knew something about my 'death' that meant all was not as it seemed, and he would have been kidnapped and interrogated. If I didn't care about him, I'd have dragged him along with me to help, and risked endangering his life!"

Greg shrugs. "Not me you should be telling, mate," he says.

Sherlock throws his hands up in frustration and flops back onto the chair. "He won't listen to me. And apparently he's changed the locks on the doors, so I can't even get into the flat now. Unless I broke in, which probably wouldn't go down too well."

An idea pops into Greg's head. "Look, I'll think of a way to get you two together, get you talking," he promises. "I'll have to trick him, and he'll probably hate me, but hopefully it'll be worth it."

* * *

Utmost privacy has been guaranteed. Greg has locked them in his office and informed them that he's not letting them out until they've made up, or one of them is dead. John is angry, really angry, and Sherlock waits it out, knowing there is no point in saying anything until at least some of the ire has been expelled.

"I am going to kill you both," he growls, after several minutes of yelling obscenities through the door, pacing the floor. "I can't _believe _I fell for this."

"John, you need to listen to what I have to say," Sherlock attempts, but is met with a furious glare.

"Oh really? Why do I need to do anything, hmm? Why should I have anything to do with you ever again?" His eyes are blazing, and Sherlock feels temporarily nervous. "You broke my heart, Sherlock. You completely failed to take my feelings into account. You might have saved my life but you might as well have not done, given your actions afterwards. I was effectively dead from the moment you 'died'."

"You think I didn't care?" Sherlock rounds on him suddenly now, moving around the desk to face John directly. The tension is approaching unbearable levels, sparks flying between the pair of them - and not the good kind. John looks like he seriously wants to carry out his earlier threat, and Sherlock is frustrated at John's absolute refusal to pay him any heed. "I saved your life and then ensured that it continued to be saved by _not _telling you the truth. If you knew, then Moriarty's crew would have been able to tell. You'd have been taken in, interrogated, tortured, probably even killed for any information."

John says nothing, just staring at him. Sherlock takes the opportunity to continue, trying to remember Molly and Lestrade's advice.

"John, look at me. Look at me properly." John stares as Sherlock's eyes flicker dangerously, his lips parted slightly, breathing a little more heavily than normal. "You want to know that I care about you, that I love you, that I am committed to you and to _us. _Can you not see it? Can you not tell how much I want you, how much I need you, how much the last two years _destroyed _me?"

John continues to stare, clearly not expecting such an outburst from Sherlock. Sherlock sighs, dropping to his knees in front of John, desperate to try anything to convey how much he feels.

"Hey, you can't-"

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock snaps, banishing any sort of lewd idea John might have had. He grabs his hand and stares up at him, as earnestly as he can. "If you'll have me back, John, I'll spend the rest of whatever time we have left proving to you how much I love you. I literally did give my life for you - or so Moriarty thought - and I don't care what you say, I'd do it again. And I'd do it for real, too." John starts, about to interrupt, but Sherlock shakes his head. "I would. I would give anything at all for you." He smiles slightly. "If you'd let me come back today, let me hold you again, I would do anything."

He rests his head against John's stomach, closing his eyes and noting that John does not move away. This has to be a good sign, he thinks to himself. An even better sign is when he feels a tentative hand in his hair, fingers tugging gently at his wayward curls, and he instinctively nuzzles into the touch, desperate for more. He feels John's hand move down to cup his chin and lift it up towards him, but Sherlock stands, feeling suddenly rather self-conscious about the position he is in.

John is now looking up at him again, his face unreadable. Sherlock sighs, and waits for the onslaught.

It is a different onslaught to what he is expecting, as John's body is suddenly pressed against his, arms around him and hands pressed into his back, and John leans up to capture Sherlock's mouth in a gentle but somehow still passionate kiss. Their lips bump haphazardly together, and Sherlock can taste that familiar John flavour - tea, and a residual mint from his toothpaste. He clutches John closer to him, desperate to prolong the embrace, wanting to catalogue every little movement, terrified it'll be their last, worried that John will still want nothing more to do with him. John's lips part slightly and Sherlock takes the opportunity to slowly move his tongue along the opening, enjoying the feeling of John's moan against his mouth at the touch.

This is what he's missed, this is what he's been living for, for the past two years - knowing that he had this to come home too. And now he's so scared that it's going to be taken away from him, and he doesn't want to ever let go of the best thing that's ever happened to him, the one and only person who ever made him feel like maybe he was actually a human being, and not some unemotional robot.

"Sherlock," John breathes against him, touching his nose against his. "I... that was amazing."

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, surprised. "It was?"

John shakes his head slightly, in wonder as opposed to denial. "I never... I couldn't expect you to be so open with me, I guess," he says, trying to explain. "I spent two years believing you were dead, and now I've just spent two weeks thinking you cared nothing for me and never did, and now..." He stares at him in amazement, the two of them locked in a moment, unable to break away.

"The only thing that kept me going for the last two years was knowing that I was coming back to you, to our lives together," Sherlock whispers, then can't stop the little grin appearing on his face. "Us against the world, remember?"

John snorts and punches Sherlock lightly on the arm. "You git."

"Romantic."

"Tosser."

"Brilliant."

"Sociopath."

"Hey." Sherlock feigns a hurt look, and John smirks, moving back into his arms, allowing Sherlock to rest his chin on top of his head, wrapping his arms around him.

"Can I come back?" Sherlock asks, a little timidly. "I really, really don't like cats."

Out in the main office, Greg grins at Sally, who can't help smiling back, as peals of laughter ring out from his locked room.

* * *

**Hello! Finally updated this with an idea that had been swimming around after listening to this song on repeat (my two year old has decided that he is now a Bon Jovi fan, so I thought it could at least contribute to this drabble series). Anyway, please review, and please, please, send me any requests. **


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